


Nevermind

by wheresnirvana



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dark Comedy, Gen, Heavy Angst, Insanity, Murder, Nirvana Reference, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Out of Character, Profanity, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-03 09:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16323968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheresnirvana/pseuds/wheresnirvana
Summary: News of family murders are widespread in England, provoking paranoia on citizens and determination on authorities to catch those killers. What they don't know is that the killers are actually on plain sight, and can be seen on the wide platform of an online site called YouTube.





	Nevermind

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be posted on my Wattpad account (I even made a cover for this), but I deleted my account there and decided to post here instead. If you're not into blood and gore, murder, insanity or other macabre things, then this isn't for you. Otherwise, proceed with caution.
> 
> Reproducing this work in AO3 or other online-writing sites and claiming it as your own is considered as plagiarism. If I find out any reproduced work in any sites, I will not hesitate to report you. If you want this posted to other sites, though, please send me a message as permission to post this to your account/s in other sites.

_Load up on guns, bring your friends_

_It's fun to lose and to pretend_

* * *

Dan had never felt satisfied in his life. To him, being one of the popular icons on YouTube was not enough. Having a best friend he met on the Internet, and sharing an apartment with him, was not enough. Living the life he had always wanted was not enough, either. All the fame and the fortune he had obtained throughout his career did not feed his insatiable desire — a deranged, disgusting desire he kept on craving, sweeter than cheesecakes and macaroons, and more fragrant than a bunch of fresh roses and imported cologne.

And now he had it. The feeling of warm blood on his palms, blood that spurted out of Mrs. Potterman's throat that he sliced with his switchblade ten minutes ago. The color of maroon stained on his hands made him sigh and smile. Oh, he missed it.

He _really_ missed it.

"Are you going to stand there and smile like a wanker, or are you going to help me?"

This broke Dan's smile, replacing with a frown. He turned around to where he heard someone talking at him, right at the doorway of the master bedroom, and told him, "Do you really have to be a killjoy?"

At the doorway stood Chris, who was looking at Dan as he swiped his bloody hand on his fringe. He gave him an eye roll, and he turned away from him to grab the body of Mr. Potterman, who lay at his feet with his back facing the other with his arms outstretched. A trail of blood could be seen beneath the dead man's feet.

"The bodies aren't moving by themselves," Chris said as he pulled the body toward the stairway, "I'll let you know."

Dan groaned. "Alright, give me ten minutes."

"Well, hurry up." Chris was already out of the doorway. "I don't want to stay up too late."

Dan shook his head and turned back on the dead woman that lay on the once pristine white bed, now stained with her blood as well. "Save your beauty sleep for the other night, shithead!" he shouted.

"Fuck you, Howell!" He heard Chris shout back, and he assumed he was already descending down the stairway.

He approached the dead woman and picked her up. The woman was as light as a feather, Dan noticed, and he assumed it had to do with her petite stature. Or maybe it was because her being dead decreased her weight. He did not know; he did not care, either.

 _At least the job will be easier,_ he thought as he made his way out the bedroom.

Two steps away from the doorway, and he was greeted with another voice calling him from the other side of the hallway. He turned and saw PJ, who just got out of the room opposite to the room where Dan came from.

"Have you seen a small lad?" PJ asked. In his right hand was a bloody machete, which he twirled around while he spoke.

"No," Dan said, quirking his eyebrows. "Why?"

PJ huffed. "That spoiled brat had to run off like the coward he is," he said, now swinging his machete in the air while speaking. "I couldn't catch him up as I was busy with that moronic teenage brat here." He pointed the machete toward the room where he was.

"Is that one dead?" Dan said.

"Who?" PJ furrowed his eyebrows.

"The teenage brat you killed."

"Oh, yeah." PJ snickered. "She almost screamed. I had to tell her to shut her ginormous mouth or her tongue would be cut off."

Dan could feel the weight of the body he was carrying grow heavy. "You should cut off her tongue."

"No." PJ shook his head. "I prefer to cut off heads."

Dan rolled his eyes. "Of course." He turned his back on PJ, facing the stairway. "You don't have to worry about the lad." He proceeded to go downstairs, stepping one foot at a time. "Someone would deal with him."

PJ watched his friend go, and then he turned back in the room, where he was greeted with a gape-mouthed teenage girl sprawled in a pool of blood. Her eyes had gone milky white, losing whatever color possessed on her irises. Her throat had a large slit, enough to chop her head off.

He walked up to the dead girl and grabbed fistful of her hair, and placed one foot on her diaphragm. He yanked it hard, like he was trying to remove a stubborn fruit from the tree branch, until he felt the flesh between the neck and the head tear. He then held it up — the head now detached from the body. More blood spewed from the girl's neck, and a few dripped down from her head.

"My newest creation." PJ smiled like a madman as he looked at the head he just ripped off. "You'll join with the others I've collected."

A terrible scream echoed through the hallway, robbing the smile off PJ in an instant. He turned, and his eyes — a bright shade of green — grew dark upon seeing a small figure standing by the doorway.

"You little brat!" PJ dropped the head on the ground. The head bounced a little as it landed on the cream-colored carpet.

The little boy ran from the doorway to the stairs, his bare feet hurrying down the steps and his head turning over his shoulder to see if PJ was chasing him.

He stumbled on the last step and rolled to the floor, landing on his back. He groaned as he reached his hand on his head. From his vision he saw PJ advancing toward him, his hand raising the machete, his teeth bearing like a ferocious dog ready to bite any second.

The boy got up, ignoring Chris standing a few feet away from him — Chris was somewhat amused at the scenario unfolding before his eyes. The boy then ran on the left side of the stairway, disappearing in the dark hallway.

PJ, on the other hand, jumped three steps to the floor, only to slip and land there on his bottom. His head and back hit the stairs. He could feel his head spinning, but he tried to shake it off.

Chris turned to PJ, laughing at him. "Well, you hit rock bottom, you bastard."

PJ groaned as he stood, rubbing on the back of his head. "Not funny," he said.

"What?" Chris gave him a cocky grin. "It's entertaining, to be honest."

"Shut up." PJ gritted his teeth.

Chris shook his head, the smile still etched on his face. "Look on the bright side," he said. "At least you didn't stab yourself with the machete."

"Oh, that's perfectly good." PJ limped toward him, closing the distance between them. "Because I can cut your head off if you mess me up one more time."

Chris only raised his eyebrows. It was not the first time PJ threatened to have his head cut off. "Yeah, sure." He shrugged. "Whatever."

PJ glared at him, but he then moved away and limped back at the stairway. "Where did that little brat go?"

"Right there." Chris pointed at the hallway on the left side of the stairway. PJ looked over his shoulder and saw where he was pointing at. Without saying a word, he left his friend and headed there — he fumbled over the wall for a light switch, which he felt it and flicked it on. The yellow light lit up the hallway, matching it with the light by the stairway.

He then limped his way there.

"Come out you brat!" He pierced the machete on the wall and ran it there, ripping the stripped blue-and-white wallpaper in the process.

He ended up in the kitchen, and he did not need to flick the switch since it was already lit. He went around the kitchen counter in circles searching for the poor little boy; he even opened all the lower cabinets to find none.

"PJ!" He heard Dan calling him. "PJ, where are you?"

He groaned, but then he called back. "In the kitchen!"

Footsteps approaching toward the kitchen echoed the hallway. "What on Earth are you doing there?"

"What do you think it is?" PJ straightened himself up. He set his machete on the kitchen counter.

Dan then appeared at the doorway, hands inside his jean pockets. "I need your keys."

PJ sighed as he reached for his pockets and fished out his keys, which he threw at Dan who tried to catch it but he let it drop to the floor just as he removed his hands from his pockets. PJ rolled his eyes, while Dan bent down to pick up the keys.

"Hurry up!" PJ put his hands on his hips. "I have to find that brat."

Dan then straightened, jingling the keys in his left hand. He looked around, inspecting the whole place, and then turned to PJ. "No sign of the child here."

"Well — " PJ ran his fingers through his unruly dark hair — "he can't possibly vanish into thin air, can he?"

Dan raised an eyebrow. "You sure he's come here?"

"Fuck, I don't know!" PJ blurted out.

Dan sighed. "Leave out of this place," he said. "It's a waste of time to stay here."

As Dan walked away, PJ looked around the place for one last time. _Dan was right_ , he thought. He grunted as he grabbed the machete from the counter, and left the kitchen as well.

What he did not know was that there was a door beside the kitchen doorway, and he went past there in his hurry. Since it blended with the pastel green color of the wall, and also he was too occupied on finishing his dirty deed, he probably had not seen it the first time.

Behind that door was the boy, and along with him was Phil, his long arms wrapping around his small frame like a shield. The space inside was small, so Phil had to crouch there and restrained from making too much movement or he would knock on the shelves containing pots, pans, and different selections of spices and herbs — and surely, that would catch PJ's attention.

"I think he's gone," Phil whispered. The boy looked up, seeing Phil's face through the flashlight he was holding, and hesitated for a moment.

Phil looked down at him. "Go on." He smiled as he let go of him. "Open the door."

The boy then turned to the door and reached for the doorknob, holding it for a second before twisting it open. The door opened a little.

"Don't worry, lad," Phil said. "We'll get out of here alive. I promise you, you'll be safe with me."

The boy then shifted himself so now he could really face Phil. "You promise?"

Phil nodded. "I promise."

He engulfed the boy in a big hug, his arms touching the back of his small head. He pressed himself hard on his small frame and, in an instant, snapped his little neck. He felt him limp on his chest, his lips letting out his last breath, his hands letting go of the flashlight — which dropped and hit the floor with a thud.

Phil looked down at the immobile body on his arms. "I told you I promised," he said.

He crawled out of the door, dragging the boy with him, and got up. He dropped the body for a minute to stretch his limbs, which had gone numb from crouching in the small space for a long time, and then he picked it up and walked out of the kitchen.

He got out of the hallway, walked around the stairway, and headed for the hallway on the other side of it. It led him in the living room where he saw all his friends there. PJ, who had gone from upstairs to retrieve the teenage girl's head and then placed it in a black bag, which he now held in his hand; Chris, who set up all the bodies on the carpet like wooden sticks for the campfire; and Dan, who just arrived from outside to take canisters and matches from their car, and to look for potential witnesses outside the house.

All the weapons they used (machete for PJ, axe for Chris, switchblade for Dan) were already in the trunk of their car. Dan already put it there when he got outside.

"About time, Philip," Dan said. "The neighbors might be calling the police at this time."

Chris stared at the little boy's body on Phil's arms. "No blood," he said, sounding more of a snide remark, "as usual."

Phil ignored the way Chris spoke as he headed on the pile of bodies, where he lay the boy down on top of Mr. Potterman, careful as if the boy was only sleeping.

"You don't have to do that," PJ told him.

Phil then turned to him, furrowing his eyebrows. "Do what?"

"That you were putting him down like you were putting him to bed," PJ said. "You don't have to —"

"Alright, get out," Chris said, interrupting PJ and Phil's conversation. "Dan, give me the matchbox."

Dan then set the canisters on the floor and handed Chris the matchbox. Chris gestured for everyone to leave, and they obliged. The three of them pulled the hoods of their matching black jackets over their heads and tiptoed out the front door, which was in front of the stairway.

Chris pulled the hood of his jacket (same color as his friends') as well, grabbed one canister and doused the bodies with kerosene, careful not to splash it over him. He then went around the house, pouring more kerosene on the floor and the furniture, until each canister was empty and the whole house reeked of the flammable liquid. He had each canister on the floor of each room; then he took the matches from his pocket, and lit one match. He threw it on the canister and watched the flames melt the plastic container and reach for the doused carpet, and then hurried himself out the room. He lit another two matches and threw it on the other rooms, and then one more on the hallway, hurrying to go downstairs as it started to kindle the wooden floor.

He went back to the living room, back to where the bodies were. He lit another match, flicked it and watched it land on top of the dead boy. The flame burst on the kerosene-filled bodies, and that was the signal for Chris to leave the living room and out of the house.

He spotted the car that was parked a few meters from the house; the distance was enough not to come across as suspicious to the neighbors — the nearest one was three blocks from the house. He went there, tapped one of the windows and shouted, "Liguori!"

As expected, the door on the passenger seat opened for him, and he climbed in and shut the door. PJ, who was behind the wheel, shifted the gears to neutral mode and drove ahead of the road.

"Another successful night, my friends!" Chris removed the jacket and tossed it at his feet. He then buckled his seat belt — although he felt he did not need to but for the sake of keeping himself alive, he had no choice.

"Mhm." Dan leaned on the window with his left hand under his chin, rolling his eyes. "And another night for me to clean up the weapons and the jackets."

At this, Chris laughed. "Don't be a killjoy, Howell."

Dan huffed. "At least Phil's jacket doesn't require much cleaning," he said as he crossed his arms. Phil, who sat beside him looking out the window on the other side, turned to him upon his name being mentioned. "He's considerate enough not to make me suffer."

Chris scoffed. "It's because Lester is sort of a clean freak."

Phil could only let out an exasperated sigh, for he did not have any words to retort at him.

"Calm yourself, Chris," PJ told him. "Perhaps we all gather round my apartment and order some takeaway pizza? My treat."

"That's what I'm talking about!" Chris grinned, though that would be not seen by his other friends as it was mostly dark inside the car.

"I thought you don't want to stay up late?" Dan asked.

Chris smirked, again not seen inside the car. "I changed my mind."


End file.
